SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames (21 page)

She lay on the bed, sprawled. It seemed to him that she lay exactly as she had lain when he and the two men had walked out. Drawing nearer, he could see that she was breathing. This reassured him. She was sleeping, soundly. There were marks on her face put there by the tall man. Her sheer garments were torn in places and there was a bruise on her shoulder, another on one wrist. Obviously she had not left the bed.

He sat on the bed and began shaking her shoulder. She roused slowly, turned over, away from him, sighed deeply. He kept shaking her and presently she turned back again, opened her eyes quite candidly. In an instant a rush of memory must have come over her, for her eyes widened, her brows shot upward.

Donahue said: “Take it easy. You're okey. Those guys went away. Now take it easy. Do you want a drink of water?” He saw that she was moistening her dry lips. He rose. “I'll get you a drink of water.”

He brought a tumbler full from the bathroom. She was sitting up, white-faced, quivering now but giving no hint of being hysterical. He sat down on the edge of the bed, held the glass to her lips. As she drank, her eyes regarded him steadily. Finished, she looked away. Donahue set the glass on the bed-table. He did not say anything for a while, choosing to allow a few minutes for her to compose herself. He didn't say anything when she rose, went to a mirror and looked at herself. He heard a gasp. Then for a moment she seemed stricken, as if remembering. He went over and offered a cigarette. She made a face, shook her head.

“Too much hangover, huh?” he muttered casually.

She let herself down on to the chair in front of the dresser. Donahue dragged over another chair, sat down beside her. Instead of looking directly at her, he studied her image in the mirror.

He said in a conversational undertone: “They've got Harrigan for the murder of Giles Consadine.”

She looked up quickly, at her own image, at Donahue's. Her eyes remained round, wide. Then she turned her head and looked at Donahue. He regarded her image, noticing that she had a nice profile. “What?” she said. “Harrigan.”

“No!”

“Would I kid you, Token?”

His voice remained low, conversational, almost intimate. She looked back at the mirrored images. The fact that she was able to see the change in her own features, startled her.

He said to her image: “I dropped around again, Token, to tell you. Harrigan hasn't got a chance in the world. The cops found his gun-fired twice-in Consadine's apartment. He admits having been there but he says he didn't kill Consadine. He says he left the gun there.” She shook her head. “No-no! He didn't kill Giles!”

“I thought you might know.”

“Know?”

“Know he didn't.”

Her eyes shimmered as she stared at his image. “I mean-I mean I believe him! He couldn't have-”

“He could have,” Donahue said pleasantly. “He meant to, in fact. He went there with a gun, expecting to find you with Consadine. He didn't find you there.”

“No-of course not,” she panted.

“Were you there?”

“No!”

He sighed,, was silent for a moment. Then he said: “You and Consadine were crossing corners with the kid, weren't you?”

In an instant she was on her feet, quivering. “That's a damned lie!”

He rose and leaned back on his heels, dropped his chin, regarded her sorrowfully. “You were true-blue to the kid, huh?”

“Yes!”

“Didn't Consadine try to make you forget him?” She stuttered: “It-it w-wasn't my fault.”

“He did, didn't he?” After a moment she said: “Yes.”

“You hated him?”

“I-well, I couldn't show it-account of Danny. He was Danny's boss more or less.”

“Did you know Harrigan was to throw the fight-and didn't?”

She looked startled, confused; but she managed to say: “I thought something went wrong. I didn't know just what it was.”

“Harrigan was supposed to lay down in the twelfth. He didn't. He didn't because he thought you and Consadine were cheating him. He was afraid that if he lost the championship he'd lose you. Token, you were cheating on the kid.”

She shook all over. “I was not! I didn't! Danny meant everything in the world to me! I love him!”

Donahue was mournful. “He's sure in a tough spot right now, Token. It's murder. Say the word over to yourself a lot of times and get the real sting of it.”

She gripped his arm. “N-no! He didn't! They can't prove he did! He says he didn't! How can they prove he did? Oh, he didn't kill Consadine!”

“He's got” to prove he didn't. Or somebody else has to prove it for him.... How about yourself, Token?”

She choked out: “Me?”

He was eyeing her keenly. “When I first came in here you were practically out of your mind. You were raving drunk. You were going around this apartment like a madwoman. You were mad. Off your nut. You hardly heard me and you hardly saw me. You were crazy, deranged-horrified about something. I couldn't talk you out of it.”

She shrank back from him.

He went on: “You knew Consadine was dead. You knew he was dead and if you'd been in this apartment since you I left the Arena you wouldn't have known that he was dead. Because nobody knew. Not even the Press. You couldn't have found it out from Harrigan because he didn't see you or phone. Besides, he didn't know Consadine was dead. He didn't know till the cops nabbed him. Yet you knew. When I got here, Token,
you knew that Consadine was dead!”

“No!” she screamed, fleeing to the other side of the room.

He did not move to follow, but he lifted his arm, wagged his forefinger. “You knew! You were trying to drug yourself with liquor. You
were in Consadine's apartment when he was killed!”

She choked and shook her head violently. She backed up against the wall, spreading her arms, spreading her hands against the wall. Words deserted her and she could only choke, gasp, grimace.

Donahue was asking gently: “Did you kill Consadine, Token?”

She groaned “O-o-oh!” miserably and slid down the wall, her eyes rolling upward, showing the whites.

Donahue crossed the room, knelt down in front of her. She sat in a crushed, broken huddle, tears streaming down her cheeks. He took hold of her chin, raised her face.

“Come on, Token,” he said. “Who killed Consadine?”

He entered a vestibule, found the inner door locked and tried several skeleton keys. None worked. The lock was old but good. He tried again and again, working as quietly as possible,, but with no success. He knew the house contained furnished rooms, apartments, and he had an idea as to what apartment he wanted. After the two men had entered earlier, he had seen a light appear in a front window, second story, where no light had been before. There was, now, a hint of light in the same window-behind drawn dark blinds. He was almost certain he heard a radio playing.

After a few minutes he gave up the hall door and soft-shoed down the stoop to the sidewalk. There was a shallow areaway belonging to the house, three steps below the sidewalk. Unlike the main floor door-which was equipped with a snap lock-the door in the areaway had only a keyhole beneath the knob. Donahue got in, locked the door from the inside.

He was in a hallway. Groping through the dark, he came to a boxed-in narrow stairway and climbed to the main floor, where a dim light glowed in the hallway. He listened for a moment, heard no sound; and then he began climbing the carpeted stairway towards the second floor. A radio was playing, softly. He tracked down the sound to the front of the hallway, heard the low mutter of voices behind a door on the left.

Standing motionless for a long moment, listening, cogitating, he finally drew his gun from its shoulder-holster. It was a .38 revolver, and he cocked it. Then he cat-footed halfway up the next stairway, turned, and made considerable noise coming down. He went directly to the door and knocked insistently.

A voice asked: “What's the matter? Who's it?”

Donahue assumed a high, petulant, rasping voice: “You going to play that damned radio all night? How do you expect a person to sleep?”

“Okey, okey.”

“If you don't cut it out I'll find a way to make you! Who do you think you are, anyhow? You think maybe you own this house? Other tenants want to sleep! I want to sleep!”

“I said okey, didn't I?”

“I'm just getting tired of it! You play it again and I'll bust your door down and bust the radio, too!”

“Oh, yeah!”

“You heard me!”

There was an oath, a furious rattling of the key in the lock. The door whipped open.

Donahue went in like a gale wind. Briefly he saw the little man before him. The little man went down like a struck weed. The tall man was sitting in a big armchair with a girl on his lap. That handicapped him. He dropped a glass of whiskey and the girl, frightened, threw her arms around his neck. The little man began scuttling across the floor like a whipped cur, but at the same time he clawed frantically at a shoulder-holster. Another girl stopped squirting seltzer into a glass, opened her mouth wide but didn't say anything; her mouth remained open.

“You on the floor!” Donahue snapped.

The little man flattened, his right arm buried beneath his body. He remained that way, motionless, his breath whistling. The girl who had been squirting the seltzer began backing up, wooden-legged.

Donahue said: “You en the floor, slide that rod out from beneath you and be careful when you do it.”

The tall man rose, lifting the girl with him. He set her down in the chair. He was in shirt-sleeves. His coat hung on the back of a chair several feet away; on the chair, also, hung his gun and holster. He put his hands on his hips. The diamonds on his fingers sparkled. The room was large, luxurious; a door, open, led to other rooms beyond.

“Is my face red?” he drawled.

Donahue said: “It looks pretty white to me.” He barked at the man on the floor: “What did I tell you about that gun!”

The little man's hand shot out, still holding the gun.

“Take your hand off it,” Donahue said, “and crawl.”

The little man was reluctant. Donahue took a step, put his foot down on the man's hand. There was a yelp. The little man crawled away. Donahue picked up the gun, hefted it, shoved it into his overcoat pocket.

“Get up now.”

The little man rose, crouching. His upper lip twitched madly, his lower hung motionless, and the rest of his face was cold, stony, gray.

Donahue said to both men: “This is a pinch, sweethearts.... Half-pint, get over alongside your pal. Get over, I said!”

When the little man had joined his companion, Donahue moved to a small table, reached for a French telephone.

The girl who had been sitting on the tall man's lap cried: “What are you doing?”

“Cops.”

“No! No! Listen, I can't be caught here! Listen, I got a husband! He'll beat hell out of me!” She jumped up, wild-eyed. “Listen, for-sake! Irene and I are supposed to be in New Jersey!”

Donahue said: “So I hope he beats hell out of you.”

“Oh, please Oh, listen! N-no!” She stumbled across the room towards him, shaking her head. “You don't know Bill! He'll murder me! Irene and I are supposed to be in Bill's cabin near Woodport! Bill couldn't come account of work! He'll-”

“Get back!”

“Oh, won't you listen! My-! the cops! I can't-”

“Get back! Don't get in my way!”

Panicky, breathless, she swayed before him, wringing her hands.

He saw the little man move-lightning-fast-towards the chair on which the other's holster hung. He saw the woman reeling in front of him-her contorted face, her frizzy hair. He struck with his left hand and she reeled, took a floor lamp down with her, screamed. He saw the slight twitch of the holster as the little man freed the gun. Saw the gun swing.

Donahue fired twice. The two explosions interlocked, welded; there was only a split-instant's interval between them. There was no third report. The little man shook, sank-and Donahue saw that his eyes were closed tightly, that his upper lip convulsed, baring his teeth in a macabre grimace that almost looked like a grin. The tall man's face was white as death.

Donahue said to the tall man, grimly: “Ambitious, wasn't he?”

Then he raised the telephone.

Kelly McPard looked at Token Moore. “This the guy?”

She raised her eyes, then lowered them. “Yes.” McPard sighed. “Okey, Dutch; take him out. Spengler shoved Ackerman into the hall, closed the door. Token had remained stoical too long. She burst out: “I'll go crazy, I'll go crazy!”

“You should have reported this,” McPard said. “It would have saved a lot of grief.”

She cried: “I couldn't! I was there when Danny came and I hid. I hid behind the sofa. And then Danny went out and about five minutes later there was a knock and I thought it was Danny again, so I hid behind the sofa again. I heard them come in. I heard one of them say: 'Consadine, you and Harrigan double-crossed the chief. King sent us here with three hundred grand to bet on Tripp because you told him you and Harrigan were chucking the fight. You double-crossed us, you rat. We're getting you and we're getting Harrigan.' And then-it happened. And I got a look at them. And then they went out and I saw Giles-dead-bloody-and I ran out and went home to my hotel.”

“When you knew we had Harrigan here for the murder, why didn't you tell us the truth?”

She gasped: “I-I-” And then she broke into sobbing, covering her face.

Donahue set down the bucket of coffee. “I'll tell you, Kel,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Token. “She and Consadine
had
been two-timing on the kid. When Consadine was knocked off, she skimmed out because she couldn't take it. When she learned from me, later, that you guys had Harrigan, she knew then that he was out of danger of the two men that had killed Consadine. So she told me she loved Danny. She must have had an idea that somehow or other Danny would be freed. With Consadine dead, she thought of Danny again-and his dough. If she'd come out in the open to explain who'd killed Consadine, Harrigan would have known she was in Consadine's place. So she kept silent. She probably had a vision of herself standing heroically by Danny during the trial-getting her mug in the papers, getting nice sobby write-ups, and getting-if he was freed-her hooks into his dough. She-”

Token screamed: “Stop! Oh, how I hate you-hate you! I-I-” She choked, then broke out in a flood of new tears, stamping her feet.

Donahue picked up the bucket of coffee again. He said, with a dry smile: “Dumb as the kid is, he fooled you and he fooled Consadine. Mainly, though, he fooled you. He'll have a hard time of it for a while, but he'll grow older, forget; and after a while you'll be just another day wasted away.”

She buried her face in her hands. She was overwhelmed by chagrin, humiliation, self-pity.

“Save 'em,” Donahue said. “Save your tears, Token.”